There’s a little restaurant in Athens, no more than a ten-minute walk from the Acropolis, where the chairs never match, and the owner once told me I was “too picky to find love.” I was twenty-four, nursing a heartbreak over a glass of ouzo. He said it with a smirk, but it stung nonetheless. That line became a small, persistent voice in my head over the years. Was I, Dimitri Laskaris, the man who could navigate a packed ferry from Santorini to Crete with ease, hard to love? For years, I kept my love battles private, fearing if I said them out loud, they might stick.

This is a story about the fight I didn’t know I was waging. And how, eventually, I threw down the white flag—not to defeat, but to myself.

The War Begins: Love As Performance

Imagine this: your life is a romantic comedy, but you’re both the lead and the bumbling best friend. That’s how my twenties felt. I grew up in Greece, where families debate everything—from Aristotle’s ethics to who makes the best baklava—but the one thing we left unspoken was vulnerability. Love was described in terms of grand gestures, sweeping romances, and enduring partnerships. It wasn’t something you stumbled through like a tourist misreading a map, which, frankly, was how my relationships looked.

My worst offense? I lived as if love was a role I needed to play—a friendly philosopher, the charming Mediterranean type. When I worked at a boutique hotel on Santorini, I leaned into the clichés: sunset strolls, wine tastings, dinners with too many candlelit courses. I once dated someone who thought my penchant for quoting Plato during arguments was “theatrically Greek.” Spoiler: it wasn’t a compliment. Her parting words were, “You’re performing love instead of feeling it.”

That blasted comment stuck to me stronger than tzatziki on garlic bread. But like the sailor who keeps steering despite stormy seas, I ignored it. Performing was safer. Real love meant being real, and real was terrifying.

The Secret Struggle: My Inner Lover vs. My Inner Critic

Now, let’s talk about the battlefield: my brain. Here’s where things got messy—a true Spartan-level skirmish.

On one side, there was The Romantic, my inner cheeseball. I was a sucker for impromptu serenades, drunken street dancing, and sending handwritten postcards just because. He was the guy who believed every person deserved a well-lit montage moment.

On the other side, there was The Critic. My Critic loved to undermine The Romantic at every turn. “Why flirt? They’ll only think it’s a line.” Or worse: “You’re a disappointment waiting to happen. Why risk it?”

The Critic shouted loudest after breakups, building armor so thick I couldn’t hear anything else. Over time, I stopped risking connection altogether. The Romantic withered like a neglected basil plant. I smiled through family weddings, dished out polite shrugs when well-meaning aunts asked why I hadn’t settled down, and let life flatten.

I didn’t know I was in a battle. Living like that felt normal, like using cling film when you’re out of foil—not ideal, but it worked. Until it didn’t.

The Turning Point: A Late-Night Philosophical Revelation

In Crete, there’s a phrase the islanders love to toss around: “Σιγά-σιγά” (pronounced sigá-sigá), which means “slowly, slowly.” It’s a way of life, a reminder to pause and let things unfold. I didn’t really embrace it until one humid summer night when I was thirty-five.

I had just finished a shift at The Mariner’s Inn, a place where locals and tourists alike fought fiercely over spots near the bouzouki player. Exhausted but restless, I poured myself a glass of raki and left the lights off. A new guest had checked in earlier—someone who traveled alone but radiated a comfort with themselves I envied. As I mulled over that, it hit me.

The war raging in my mind wasn’t against some external ideal. I wasn’t sabotaging love because of my exes, or bad timing, or even my family’s high expectations. Somewhere along the way, I’d quietly decided I wasn’t worth it. The Critic didn’t just hate love; he hated me. And for years, I’d let him rule the roost.

That revelation sat in my chest like a sack of olives. I didn’t sleep much that night, but by dawn, I made a quiet promise: I would fight for my inner Romantic. No more armor. No more roles. Just me, flawed and reckless, but whole.

The Olive Tree Method: How I Embraced Authenticity

Here’s where things get both messy and magical. Change, I realized, doesn’t happen overnight. It’s more like cultivating an olive tree—slow, steady, with unapologetic patience. The roots need time to hold firm, but once they do, they’ll outlast generations.

I started by embracing discomfort. Vulnerability was my workout—a painful but necessary exercise for long-term strength. You know what helped? Taking small risks in daily interactions. Smiling longer than my usual safe three seconds. Letting my voice quiver during an apology. Leaning in for a kiss without overthinking my breath mint situation. Vulnerability wasn’t catastrophic. Surprise—it was freeing! People didn’t see it as failure. They saw it as something real.

I also stopped romanticizing perfection. I’d always aimed for an idyllic brand of love, the kind Plato might write about: pure, transcendent, immune to flaws. But people aren’t ideals—they’re beautiful chaos. And honestly? I couldn’t love anyone else before I loved my own messy, chaotic self.

The Spoils of War: Love Without Armor

Eventually, the armor didn’t feel necessary anymore. I didn’t need to perform, because the real me—a little too talkative, a little too self-critical, but deeply passionate—had far more to offer. True connection isn’t about presenting the best version of yourself. It’s about showing up, olive stains and all.

The irony? Once I stopped trying so hard, love found me in the form of someone who adored every mismatched piece of my personality. Like that restaurant from my twenties, our life together has a casual imperfection: chairs that don’t match, laughter interrupted by bickering, and debates over whether or not I burned the spanakopita. (I always maintain it’s ‘crispy,’ not ‘burnt.’)

Takeaway: Choose You First

When I think back to that fiery twenty-four-year-old in Athens, sitting in a dimly lit café wondering why love was always out of reach, I want to hug him. I don’t regret the years I spent fighting an invisible battle, because they’ve made me kinder now. Kinder to others, sure, but first and foremost, kinder to myself.

So, if you’re reading this and feeling like love has evaded you, take a beat. Forget perfection. Forget roles. Just start with you. Be messy. Be vulnerable. Trust the process.

And never forget: even the Critic can’t resist a good olive tree.